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    <title>1. CHAPTER VII</title>
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    <div class="chapter" id="id1038840"><h2>1. CHAPTER VII</h2>


<p id="id1038846"><span id="id579086"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->

They had a very fine day for Box Hill; and all the other outward
circumstances of arrangement, accommodation, and punctuality,
were in favour of a pleasant party.  Mr. Weston directed the whole,
officiating safely between Hartfield and the Vicarage, and every
body was in good time.  Emma and Harriet went together; Miss Bates
and her niece, with the Eltons; the gentlemen on horseback. 
Mrs. Weston remained with Mr. Woodhouse.  Nothing was wanting
but to be happy when they got there.  Seven miles were travelled
in expectation of enjoyment, and every body had a burst of admiration
on first arriving; but in the general amount of the day there
was deficiency.  There was a languor, a want of spirits, a want of union,
which could not be got over.  They separated too much into parties. 
The Eltons walked together; Mr. Knightley took charge of Miss
Bates and Jane; and Emma and Harriet belonged to Frank Churchill. 
And Mr. Weston tried, in vain, to make them harmonise better.  It seemed
at first an accidental division, but it never materially varied. 
Mr. and Mrs. Elton, indeed, shewed no unwillingness to mix,
and be as agreeable as they could; but during the two whole hours
that were spent on the hill, there seemed a principle of separation,
between the other parties, too strong for any fine prospects, or any
cold collation, or any cheerful Mr. Weston, to remove.
</p>

<p id="id1038849"><span id="id579094"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
At first it was downright dulness to Emma.  She had never seen Frank
Churchill so silent and stupid.  He said nothing worth hearing—
looked without seeing—admired without intelligence—listened without
knowing what she said.  While he was so dull, it was no wonder that
Harriet should be dull likewise; and they were both insufferable.
</p>

<p id="id1038852"><span id="id579103"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
When they all sat down it was better; to her taste a great deal better,
for Frank Churchill grew talkative and gay, making her his first object. 
Every distinguishing attention that could be paid, was paid to her. 
To amuse her, and be agreeable in her eyes, seemed all that he
cared for—and Emma, glad to be enlivened, not sorry to be flattered,
was gay and easy too, and gave him all the friendly encouragement,
the admission to be gallant, which she had ever given in the first
and most animating period of their acquaintance; but which now,
in her own estimation, meant nothing, though in the judgment of most
people looking on it must have had such an appearance as no English
word but flirtation could very well describe.  “Mr. Frank Churchill
and Miss Woodhouse flirted together excessively.”  They were laying
themselves open to that very phrase—and to having it sent off
in a letter to Maple Grove by one lady, to Ireland by another. 
Not that Emma was gay and thoughtless from any real felicity;
it was rather because she felt less happy than she had expected. 
She laughed because she was disappointed; and though she liked him
for his attentions, and thought them all, whether in friendship,
admiration, or playfulness, extremely judicious, they were not winning
back her heart.  She still intended him for her friend.
</p>

<p id="id1038855"><span id="id579108"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“How much I am obliged to you,” said he, “for telling me to come to-day!—
If it had not been for you, I should certainly have lost all the
happiness of this party.  I had quite determined to go away again.”
</p>

<p id="id1038864"><span id="id579121"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Yes, you were very cross; and I do not know what about,
except that you were too late for the best strawberries. 
I was a kinder friend than you deserved.  But you were humble. 
You begged hard to be commanded to come.”
</p>

<p id="id1038833"><span id="id579136"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Don’t say I was cross.  I was fatigued.  The heat overcame me.”
</p>

<p id="id1038877"><span id="id579146"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“It is hotter to-day.”
</p>

<p id="id1038880"><span id="id579154"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Not to my feelings.  I am perfectly comfortable to-day.”
</p>

<p id="id1038885"><span id="id579163"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“You are comfortable because you are under command.”
</p>

<p id="id1038890"><span id="id579172"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Your command?—Yes.”
</p>

<p id="id1038893"><span id="id579180"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Perhaps I intended you to say so, but I meant self-command. You had,
somehow or other, broken bounds yesterday, and run away from your
own management; but to-day you are got back again—and as I cannot
be always with you, it is best to believe your temper under your
own command rather than mine.”
</p>

<p id="id1038898"><span id="id579187"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“It comes to the same thing.  I can have no self-command without
a motive.  You order me, whether you speak or not.  And you can
be always with me.  You are always with me.”
</p>

<p id="id1038906"><span id="id579200"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Dating from three o’clock yesterday.  My perpetual influence
could not begin earlier, or you would not have been so much
out of humour before.”
</p>

<p id="id1038896"><span id="id579212"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Three o’clock yesterday!  That is your date.  I thought I had seen
you first in February.”
</p>

<p id="id1038920"><span id="id579222"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Your gallantry is really unanswerable.  But (lowering her voice)—
nobody speaks except ourselves, and it is rather too much to be
talking nonsense for the entertainment of seven silent people.”
</p>

<p id="id1038928"><span id="id579235"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I say nothing of which I am ashamed,” replied he, with lively impudence. 
“I saw you first in February.  Let every body on the Hill hear me if
they can.  Let my accents swell to Mickleham on one side, and Dorking
on the other.  I saw you first in February.”  And then whispering—
“Our companions are excessively stupid.  What shall we do to rouse them? 
Any nonsense will serve.  They shall talk.  Ladies and gentlemen,
I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse (who, wherever she is, presides)
to say, that she desires to know what you are all thinking of?”
</p>

<p id="id1038931"><span id="id579242"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Some laughed, and answered good-humouredly. Miss Bates said a great deal;
Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of Miss Woodhouse’s presiding;
Mr. Knightley’s answer was the most distinct.
</p>

<p id="id1038940"><span id="id579257"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are
all thinking of?”
</p>

<p id="id1038946"><span id="id579264"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Oh! no, no”—cried Emma, laughing as carelessly as she could—
“Upon no account in the world.  It is the very last thing I
would stand the brunt of just now.  Let me hear any thing rather
than what you are all thinking of.  I will not say quite all. 
There are one or two, perhaps, (glancing at Mr. Weston and Harriet,)
whose thoughts I might not be afraid of knowing.”
</p>

<p id="id1038949"><span id="id579271"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“It is a sort of thing,” cried Mrs. Elton emphatically,
“which I should not have thought myself privileged to
inquire into.  Though, perhaps, as the Chaperon of the party—
I never was in any circle—exploring parties—young ladies—married women—”
</p>

<p id="id1038915"><span id="id579278"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Her mutterings were chiefly to her husband; and he murmured,
in reply,
</p>

<p id="id1038953"><span id="id579286"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Very true, my love, very true.  Exactly so, indeed—quite unheard of—
but some ladies say any thing.  Better pass it off as a joke. 
Every body knows what is due to you.”
</p>

<p id="id1038966"><span id="id579300"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“It will not do,” whispered Frank to Emma; “they are most
of them affronted.  I will attack them with more address. 
Ladies and gentlemen—I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say, that she
waives her right of knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of,
and only requires something very entertaining from each of you,
in a general way.  Here are seven of you, besides myself, (who, she
is pleased to say, am very entertaining already,) and she only
demands from each of you either one thing very clever, be it prose
or verse, original or repeated—or two things moderately clever—
or three things very dull indeed, and she engages to laugh heartily
at them all.”
</p>

<p id="id1038955"><span id="id579306"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Oh! very well,” exclaimed Miss Bates, “then I need not be uneasy. 
‘Three things very dull indeed.’  That will just do for me, you know. 
I shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open
my mouth, shan’t I? (looking round with the most good-humoured
dependence on every body’s assent)—Do not you all think I shall?”
</p>

<p id="id1038971"><span id="id579313"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Emma could not resist.
</p>

<p id="id1038977"><span id="id579320"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Ah! ma’am, but there may be a difficulty.  Pardon me—but you
will be limited as to number—only three at once.”
</p>

<p id="id1038985"><span id="id579331"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not
immediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could
not anger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her.
</p>

<p id="id1038994"><span id="id579341"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Ah!—well—to be sure.  Yes, I see what she means, (turning to
Mr. Knightley,) and I will try to hold my tongue.  I must make
myself very disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing
to an old friend.”
</p>

<p id="id1039001"><span id="id579355"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I like your plan,” cried Mr. Weston.  “Agreed, agreed.  I will do
my best.  I am making a conundrum.  How will a conundrum reckon?”
</p>

<p id="id1039009"><span id="id579367"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Low, I am afraid, sir, very low,” answered his son;—“but we shall
be indulgent—especially to any one who leads the way.”
</p>

<p id="id1039017"><span id="id579378"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“No, no,” said Emma, “it will not reckon low.  A conundrum of
Mr. Weston’s shall clear him and his next neighbour.  Come, sir,
pray let me hear it.”
</p>

<p id="id1038987"><span id="id579390"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I doubt its being very clever myself,” said Mr. Weston. 
“It is too much a matter of fact, but here it is.—What two letters
of the alphabet are there, that express perfection?”
</p>

<p id="id1039030"><span id="id579404"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“What two letters!—express perfection!  I am sure I do not know.”
</p>

<p id="id1039037"><span id="id579413"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Ah! you will never guess.  You, (to Emma), I am certain, will
never guess.—I will tell you.—M. and A.—Em-ma.—Do you understand?”
</p>

<p id="id1039033"><span id="id579425"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Understanding and gratification came together.  It might be a very
indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh
at and enjoy in it—and so did Frank and Harriet.—It did not seem
to touch the rest of the party equally; some looked very stupid
about it, and Mr. Knightley gravely said,
</p>

<p id="id1039049"><span id="id579434"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston
has done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up every
body else.  Perfection should not have come quite so soon.”
</p>

<p id="id1039057"><span id="id579446"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused,” said Mrs. Elton;
“I really cannot attempt—I am not at all fond of the sort of thing. 
I had an acrostic once sent to me upon my own name, which I was not
at all pleased with.  I knew who it came from.  An abominable puppy!—
You know who I mean (nodding to her husband). These kind of things
are very well at Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire;
but quite out of place, in my opinion, when one is exploring
about the country in summer.  Miss Woodhouse must excuse me. 
I am not one of those who have witty things at every body’s service. 
I do not pretend to be a wit.  I have a great deal of vivacity
in my own way, but I really must be allowed to judge when to speak
and when to hold my tongue.  Pass us, if you please, Mr. Churchill. 
Pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane, and myself.  We have nothing clever to say—
not one of us.
</p>

<p id="id1039060"><span id="id579452"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Yes, yes, pray pass me,” added her husband, with a sort of
sneering consciousness; “I have nothing to say that can entertain
Miss Woodhouse, or any other young lady.  An old married man—
quite good for nothing.  Shall we walk, Augusta?”
</p>

<p id="id1039046"><span id="id579459"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“With all my heart.  I am really tired of exploring so long
on one spot.  Come, Jane, take my other arm.”
</p>

<p id="id1039074"><span id="id579469"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Jane declined it, however, and the husband and wife walked off. 
“Happy couple!” said Frank Churchill, as soon as they were out
of hearing:—“How well they suit one another!—Very lucky—marrying as
they did, upon an acquaintance formed only in a public place!—They only
knew each other, I think, a few weeks in Bath!  Peculiarly lucky!—
for as to any real knowledge of a person’s disposition that Bath,
or any public place, can give—it is all nothing; there can be
no knowledge.  It is only by seeing women in their own homes,
among their own set, just as they always are, that you can form
any just judgment.  Short of that, it is all guess and luck—
and will generally be ill-luck. How many a man has committed himself
on a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest of his life!”
</p>

<p id="id1039078"><span id="id579477"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Miss Fairfax, who had seldom spoken before, except among her
own confederates, spoke now.
</p>

<p id="id1039076"><span id="id579484"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Such things do occur, undoubtedly.”—She was stopped by a cough. 
Frank Churchill turned towards her to listen.
</p>

<p id="id1039092"><span id="id579494"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“You were speaking,” said he, gravely.  She recovered her voice.
</p>

<p id="id1039098"><span id="id579503"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I was only going to observe, that though such unfortunate circumstances
do sometimes occur both to men and women, I cannot imagine them
to be very frequent.  A hasty and imprudent attachment may arise—
but there is generally time to recover from it afterwards.  I would
be understood to mean, that it can be only weak, irresolute characters,
(whose happiness must be always at the mercy of chance,)
who will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to be an inconvenience,
an oppression for ever.”
</p>

<p id="id1039101"><span id="id579509"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
He made no answer; merely looked, and bowed in submission; and soon
afterwards said, in a lively tone,
</p>

<p id="id1039108"><span id="id579518"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgment, that whenever
I marry, I hope some body will chuse my wife for me.  Will you?
(turning to Emma.) Will you chuse a wife for me?—I am sure I
should like any body fixed on by you.  You provide for the family,
you know, (with a smile at his father). Find some body for me. 
I am in no hurry.  Adopt her, educate her.”
</p>

<p id="id1039112"><span id="id579524"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“And make her like myself.”
</p>

<p id="id1039115"><span id="id579532"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“By all means, if you can.”
</p>

<p id="id1039119"><span id="id579540"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Very well.  I undertake the commission.  You shall have a charming wife.”
</p>

<p id="id1039126"><span id="id579549"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“She must be very lively, and have hazle eyes.  I care for nothing else. 
I shall go abroad for a couple of years—and when I return,
I shall come to you for my wife.  Remember.”
</p>

<p id="id1039134"><span id="id579563"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Emma was in no danger of forgetting.  It was a commission to touch every
favourite feeling.  Would not Harriet be the very creature described? 
Hazle eyes excepted, two years more might make her all that he wished. 
He might even have Harriet in his thoughts at the moment;
who could say?  Referring the education to her seemed to imply it.
</p>

<p id="id1039137"><span id="id579575"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Now, ma’am,” said Jane to her aunt, “shall we join Mrs. Elton?”
</p>

<p id="id1039144"><span id="id579584"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“If you please, my dear.  With all my heart.  I am quite ready. 
I was ready to have gone with her, but this will do just as well. 
We shall soon overtake her.  There she is—no, that’s somebody else. 
That’s one of the ladies in the Irish car party, not at all like her.—
Well, I declare—”
</p>

<p id="id1039147"><span id="id579590"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
They walked off, followed in half a minute by Mr. Knightley. 
Mr. Weston, his son, Emma, and Harriet, only remained; and the young
man’s spirits now rose to a pitch almost unpleasant.  Even Emma grew
tired at last of flattery and merriment, and wished herself rather
walking quietly about with any of the others, or sitting almost alone,
and quite unattended to, in tranquil observation of the beautiful
views beneath her.  The appearance of the servants looking out
for them to give notice of the carriages was a joyful sight;
and even the bustle of collecting and preparing to depart,
and the solicitude of Mrs. Elton to have her carriage first,
were gladly endured, in the prospect of the quiet drive home which was
to close the very questionable enjoyments of this day of pleasure. 
Such another scheme, composed of so many ill-assorted people,
she hoped never to be betrayed into again.
</p>

<p id="id1039121"><span id="id579599"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
While waiting for the carriage, she found Mr. Knightley by her side. 
He looked around, as if to see that no one were near, and then said,
</p>

<p id="id1039154"><span id="id579606"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been used to do: 
a privilege rather endured than allowed, perhaps, but I must still
use it.  I cannot see you acting wrong, without a remonstrance. 
How could you be so unfeeling to Miss Bates?  How could you be so
insolent in your wit to a woman of her character, age, and situation?—
Emma, I had not thought it possible.”
</p>

<p id="id1039162"><span id="id579613"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Emma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to laugh it off.
</p>

<p id="id1039168"><span id="id579621"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Nay, how could I help saying what I did?—Nobody could have helped it. 
It was not so very bad.  I dare say she did not understand me.”
</p>

<p id="id1039176"><span id="id579633"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I assure you she did.  She felt your full meaning.  She has talked
of it since.  I wish you could have heard how she talked of it—
with what candour and generosity.  I wish you could have heard her
honouring your forbearance, in being able to pay her such attentions,
as she was for ever receiving from yourself and your father,
when her society must be so irksome.”
</p>

<p id="id1039179"><span id="id579639"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Oh!“ cried Emma, ”I know there is not a better creature in the world: 
but you must allow, that what is good and what is ridiculous are
most unfortunately blended in her.“
</p>

<p id="id1039187"><span id="id579652"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“They are blended,” said he, “I acknowledge; and, were she prosperous,
I could allow much for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculous
over the good.  Were she a woman of fortune, I would leave every
harmless absurdity to take its chance, I would not quarrel with you
for any liberties of manner.  Were she your equal in situation—
but, Emma, consider how far this is from being the case.  She is poor;
she has sunk from the comforts she was born to; and, if she live
to old age, must probably sink more.  Her situation should secure
your compassion.  It was badly done, indeed!  You, whom she had known
from an infant, whom she had seen grow up from a period when her
notice was an honour, to have you now, in thoughtless spirits,
and the pride of the moment, laugh at her, humble her—and before
her niece, too—and before others, many of whom (certainly some,)
would be entirely guided by your treatment of her.—This is not
pleasant to you, Emma—and it is very far from pleasant to me;
but I must, I will,—I will tell you truths while I can;
satisfied with proving myself your friend by very faithful counsel,
and trusting that you will some time or other do me greater justice
than you can do now.”
</p>

<p id="id1039190"><span id="id579659"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
While they talked, they were advancing towards the carriage;
it was ready; and, before she could speak again, he had handed her in. 
He had misinterpreted the feelings which had kept her face averted,
and her tongue motionless.  They were combined only of anger
against herself, mortification, and deep concern.  She had not
been able to speak; and, on entering the carriage, sunk back
for a moment overcome—then reproaching herself for having taken
no leave, making no acknowledgment, parting in apparent sullenness,
she looked out with voice and hand eager to shew a difference;
but it was just too late.  He had turned away, and the horses were
in motion.  She continued to look back, but in vain; and soon,
with what appeared unusual speed, they were half way down the hill,
and every thing left far behind.  She was vexed beyond what could
have been expressed—almost beyond what she could conceal. 
Never had she felt so agitated, mortified, grieved, at any circumstance
in her life.  She was most forcibly struck.  The truth of this
representation there was no denying.  She felt it at her heart. 
How could she have been so brutal, so cruel to Miss Bates!  How could
she have exposed herself to such ill opinion in any one she valued! 
And how suffer him to leave her without saying one word of gratitude,
of concurrence, of common kindness!
</p>

<p id="id1039151"><span id="id579665"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Time did not compose her.  As she reflected more, she seemed
but to feel it more.  She never had been so depressed.  Happily it
was not necessary to speak.  There was only Harriet, who seemed not
in spirits herself, fagged, and very willing to be silent; and Emma
felt the tears running down her cheeks almost all the way home,
without being at any trouble to check them, extraordinary as they were.
</p>



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